He Who Troubleth His Own House
by Jehan's Muse
Summary: Angsty "Inherit the Wind" songfic. Only in the last moments of his life can Hornbeck realize the mistakes he's made. WARNING: SLASH.


I don't know how I came up with the idea for this. I was in a rather dark, angsty mood. I've always felt sorry for Hornbeck, even though he was my favorite character. I chose "Amigone" for this particular fic because the song has an undercurrent of anxiety to it, and I've always thought of Hornbeck as kind of a paranoid character--he pretends to be cool and collected, but inside he's really worried and lonely. Anyway, I don't want to kill Hornbeck, but it's essential to the storyline. I promise I won't kill Drummond or Bert or Rachel or any of the other protagonists (Brady's already dead, but I suppose if he wasn't I could deal with letting him live. If I had to.) For the record, this story contains slash. M/M. Shounen-ai or whatever it's called. Yaoi. It's mild slash, but slash nonetheless. I figure that since Hornbeck is basically dying in Drummond's arms, there might as well be a last kiss or two involved, especially after Hornbeck tearfully confesses and apologizes from the bottom of his heart. In addition to slash, this story contains an inordinate amount of sappiness. You have been warned.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own "Inherit the Wind," it belongs to Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee, but since they're dead I don't think they can sue me. I do not own "Amigone," it belongs to the Goo Goo Dolls, namely Robbie Takac because he's the one singing it.  
  
Every time you point your finger,  
Three more point right back at you  
I'm not sayin' that there's something wrong with life  
'Cause that's a sad excuse...  
  
Nightmares plagued Drummond for hours as he tossed and turned on the narrow hotel bed. His subconscious remembered all too well the singing of the townspeople outside the window, the burning scarecrow, Hornbeck's spiteful words..."Looks like you're going out in a blaze of glory, Counselor." The singing echoed in his mind. "We'll hang Henry Drummond from a sour apple tree..." Eventually, someone had produced a newspaper to set ablaze and the chanting had changed to "We'll hang E.K. Hornbeck from a sour apple tree," but the irrepressible reporter had taken it all in stride, leaning out the window and waving jauntily to the furious townsfolk. The singing grew louder. "We'll hang Henry Drummond from a sour apple tree, His truth is marching on..." The burning straw doll began to writhe, struggling to get away from the flames that consumed it. "I'm flattered, but I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go!" it cried. With a jolt, Drummond realized that the scarecrow's voice wasn't in his dream...it was coming from beside his bed. He awoke with a jolt. Hornbeck glanced down at him from where he was being held against the wall by two men, both dressed in overalls and work boots, and both reeking of alcohol.  
  
"Hello, Henry," he said, his voice belying the panic welling up inside him.  
  
In a flash, Drummond was on his feet. In addition to the two drunk farmers that held his companion captive, two others were advancing on him. One carried a pistol in his hand, and both were leering unpleasantly.  
  
You played your game of rat and mouse,   
Chasin' us from house to house,  
I'm not sayin' that there's something wrong with you,  
It's wrong with me as well...  
  
"Well, well," slurred the man with the gun. "If it isn't Henry Drummond."  
  
"Who'd you think it was, Gene Kelly?" snapped Hornbeck sarcastically. In response, one of the men slapped him, hard. Hornbeck winced, but wisely shut his mouth.  
  
"What are you doing in here?" Drummond attemtped to hide his panic as well as Hornbeck had done, but couldn't manage.   
  
"Well," drawled one of them, "we figured that since you're too good for our jail and our judge, you're too good for heaven." He barked a laugh, blasting his beer breath in Drummond's face. "So we're sendin' the pair of ya to Hell!"  
  
A cold wave of terror washed over Drummond. He could barely make out Hornbeck's features in the dark, but he could sense the look of horror on it.   
  
"Well, lookie here," snarled one of the men holding Hornbeck down, "the fancy Northern newspaper writer's sweatin'."  
  
"Careful, now," sneered another one, "y'might make the print run."  
  
"You bastard," growled Hornbeck. Drummond stared at him; Hornbeck was usually known for using wit instead of profanity in tough situations.  
  
Wit would probably have served him better at the present moment. Enraged, Hornbeck's captors threw him to the floor.   
  
"You watch your mouth, city-slicker!" shouted one of them, kicking Hornbeck in the side. "We ain't here to be cussed at by some upstart Northerner, no sir!" He spat, intending to hit the reporter, but his aim was off by several inches and the saliva landed on the carpet.  
  
"I say we finish the pair of 'em off right now," hissed the man with the pistol.  
  
"The reporter first," agreed another.  
  
"Stop it!" cried Drummond, but his protest fell on deaf ears. There was a gunshot, a cry of shock and pain, and a noise from downstairs.   
  
"What was that?"  
  
The drunken farmers, startled by the voice, looked around wildly. They muttered amongst themselves for a minute, then beat a hasty retreat out the door.  
  
Are you alive?  
Am I gone?  
Is it too late to call and tell you to be strong?  
Are you alive?   
Am I gone?  
Is it too late to face the truth that I was wrong?  
Am I gone?  
  
Drummond locked the door securely, then knelt by the reporter. Switching on the light, he examined Hornbeck. The blood was starting to spread across the front of his shirt, welling from the wound in his stomach.   
  
"Hornbeck?" he asked, tentatively. He paused. "Everett?"   
  
The reporter clenched his teeth, nodding. "Drunken bastards..." He was breathing heavily; the bloodstain had covered a large area of his shirt.  
  
"Everett, you'll be all right. Don't worry." Drummond gently ran a hand under his companion's head, lifting it slightly. Hornbeck shook his head.  
  
(A/N: For the slower ones out there among you, Everett is Hornbeck's first name. In the play, he always introduces himself and is referred to as E.K. Hornbeck, so I took the liberty of giving him a first and middle name, Everett Kennedy. Just to clear that up.)  
  
"I don't think so. I'm losing too much blood."  
  
Drummond had never liked the cynical, smart-alecky reporter, but he felt suddenly drawn to him. "Everett, don't worry. It's all right."  
  
"Henry..." began Hornbeck. He choked slightly, swallowing and gasping slightly with the pain.  
  
"Don't talk, Hornbeck," said Drummond.  
  
"No," replied the reporter. He opened his eyes and fixed Drummond with a bright, chocolate-brown gaze. "There's something I have to say."  
  
"Save it," replied Drummond, running a hand absentmindedly through his companion's dark hair.  
  
"Save it for when, Henry?" snapped Hornbeck. His voice was surprisingly clear, but he collapsed into a fit of coughing. A thin rivulet of blood trickled down his chin. Drummond reached for a handkerchief to wipe it away. "Save it for when?" repeated Hornbeck. "Damn it, Henry, I'm going to die. I have about five minutes left on this miserable, backward planet. Get that through your head."  
  
Drummond winced. Unbidden, he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. "What do you want to say?" he asked.  
  
Hornbeck took a deep breath, but dissolved into another fit of coughing. Drummond supported his head, again wiping away the blood trickling from the reporter's mouth. "I..." began Hornbeck. He swallowed, wincing at the metallic taste of blood. "I'm sorry," he said.  
  
Drummond opened his mouth to protest that Hornbeck had nothing to apologize for, but stopped, for several reasons. Hornbeck, as Drummond had told him more than once in the past, did indeed have quite a bit to apologize for. Not that this was the most appropriate thing to tell a contrite, dying man. It was also possible, reasoned Drummond, that due to loss of blood, Hornbeck's usually agile mind was not working the way it should. People with little time left to live often find themselves apologizing for no reason. And Drummond felt he owed it to this bitter young journalist to let him say what it was he was so intent on saying before he was torn away from the world he had come to hate and scorn. He shut his mouth and let Hornbeck continue.  
  
"I shouldn't have let my sarcasm become my trademark," continued the reporter. "I shouldn't have considered myself so far above everyone else. I shouldn't have taken my past out on everyone around me." Hornbeck's voice was weakening, but he continued doggedly. "I'm just an ordinary man, Henry. Like you. Like Brady. Like Cates." He paused. "I had no right to spit on Brady's beliefs, or on Cates' determination, or on these townspeople. We're all pretty much equal, with only a few exceptions." Hornbeck leaned back, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeated.  
  
The tears that had been steadily welling up in Drummond's eyes spilled over onto his companion's already soaked shirt. Damn it, he thought, why does it have to take death to make a man realize his mistakes? Why couldn't the Fates be content with a reformed, new-and-improved Everett Kennedy Hornbeck? Hornbeck opened his eyes again, half-smiling that sarcastic smile of his. "I didn't realize you'd be so broken-up about it, Henry," he said.  
  
Drummond said nothing, but ran his hand gently over the wound in Hornbeck's stomach. Softly, almost impulsively, he bent down and took the reporter's mouth beneath his own in a tender kiss.   
  
Heavenly intoxication  
Love's been marred by medication  
Ain't it funny how a life can take a turn  
When the end is near?  
  
Hornbeck smiled. "Goodbye, Henry," he said softly. Drummond cradled his friend's head for a few more seconds, then let it rest on the floor.  
  
Are you alive?  
Am I gone?  
Is it too late to call and tell you to be strong?  
Are you alive?   
Am I gone?  
Was the poison in our love there all along?  
Am I gone? 


End file.
